


Un Homme Dangereux

by shouldbeover



Category: Les liaisons dangereuses | Dangerous Liaisons - Choderlos de Laclos, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Epistolary, Georgian Period, Multi, Pastiche, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:11:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 68
Words: 21,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldbeover/pseuds/shouldbeover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pastiche with de Laclos' <i>Les Liaisons Dangereuses</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Letter 1 - Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE see notes at the end for an explanation of the plan
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> If you are familiar with the novel, then you know that the main characters are quite unpleasant in many ways. They engage in the seduction of minors, emotional manipulation and blackmail, adultery, and cruelty. These all take place off stage and are only mentioned within the letters. To that I have added reference to incest and BDSM (which also make their appearance in the movie “Cruel Intentions,” an update of de Leclos). However, there will be nothing explicit. It is possible that there will be some “Sexters,” the equivalent of modern Sexting. I’m not sure yet. So, if triggery things without the promise of explicit smut isn’t for you, then this probably isn’t your kind of story for you. There will be angst. Lots of angst.

17th October, 17**

My dearest Madame A__,

In your last letter you asked about the fate of my brother as you were still in France when the scandal ensued. It is a long story, longer in some ways in the telling than in the living. It is also a painful tale for me relate, as I cannot help but feel that I bear a great deal of the responsibility for my brother’s downfall. It is only because of our long, long friendship (longer than either of us care to admit to) that I can bring myself to share the truth with you. I hope you will not think less of me when I am done.

My brother was, as you well know, extraordinarily beautiful. Very few people would dispute that. The very oddness of his features came together to create something exquisite, unique and otherworldly. Opinions of his character, however, varied wildly. To some he was the most charming man in the world. To others, the most cruel. He was known to be clever, but very few were aware of how truly brilliant he was. And he wasted his brilliance on trivial things. Did you know that in his childhood he was considered a prodigy? Oh, yes! His tutors believed he could easily become as great a scientist as Sir Isaac Newton, or as fine an empirical philosopher as Descartes. I remember quite clearly two of his masters fighting about him on the lawn when he was but eight or nine. “No, he will read chemistry!” “No, he will be a philosopher!”

But then, our parents died of cholera and I was entrusted with his education and his care. I was only just eighteen myself, and finishing my own education at Oxford. Alas, after a particularly buxom and forward maid initiated him in the pleasures of the flesh when he was twelve, followed, in his own spirit of completeness, by the seduction of a stable boy the following year, the world of the mind seemed to no longer interest him. While he managed two years of study at university, and maintained into his adulthood, some peculiar arcane hobbies, for the most part he dedicated his adult life to being a roué, Lothario and cad. And in contrast to the character in Cervantes, his tastes were omnivorous and not limited to a single sex. But you are well aware of all of this, as I know that both you and your son enjoyed his bed at different times.

Perhaps if I had not taken him to the theater that night, or if I had not asked him to perform that particular service… Alas, we will never know. Perhaps fate would always have intervened, and he would have met Sir John Watson, Physician, no matter what I or anyone else did. I would like to say that I sought his help in order to give his life purpose, to try and inspire that youthful curiosity and stir, once again, his glorious mind, but truth to tell, I often asked him to help me in less savory ways, taking advantage of his beauty, rather than his brain.

And so it was, in the spring of that year, that I went to visit him in his rooms in Baker Street. I found him before his fire, dressed in satin breaches, banyan and nightcap, sawing moodily at his violin.

“Sherlock. Rouse yourself, I have a project you will enjoy,” I said to him.

“Can’t. Things I have on are too important. I haven’t the time,” he replied. This was typical banter between us.

“Nonsense,” I said, “I happen to know from your servants you haven’t stirred from here for a fortnight.”

“Oh, yes? Perhaps I am eluding your spies. I know that all of my servants are in your employee. Do they examine my shoes for dirt each night?” That was, I fear, nearer to the truth that I was ready to admit. I can only excuse my snooping behavior by saying that I worried about him constantly.

Instead, I observed, “You are unshaven, and your hair wants cutting. You are too vain to go into public with your hair ungroomed.” Untrimmed, my brother’s glorious curls would quickly become too unruly to be tied with a ribbon. “I would have heard too if you were at any of your usual haunts, or with any of your usual lovers. Anyway, is there a nun or priest in this country left that you haven’t corrupted? Is there a newly appointed Anglican Bishop towards whom you have set your cap? You will enjoy this. It will be a challenge.” I dangled this before him, for I knew that it was only a difficult chase that interested him.

He laid aside his violin to listen to me at last and I pressed on. Oh, how I regret now that I was ever so persistent. “There is a gentleman, a member of Parliament. He is of French descent and we believe he may be passing information to the French. If you compromise him, he might be amenable to passing on the information we feed him.”

“Huguenot, surely?” he said, making to reach again for his violin.

“No, Catholic, interestingly. It may trouble his loyalties,” I replied.

He looked at me most coldly and said, “We are of French descent. Does it trouble your loyalty?”

This too was a point of contention between us, although I think he only maintained his love of France to be contrary. “Papa was British and represented the British government in France. At the time we were at peace with France. Now we are not. We are British first.”

“Quelle horreur! Maman aurait le coeur brisé,” he returned.

“Peut-être. Mais— but father would be proud.” We stared at one another in defiance.

At last he said, “And this gentleman, he is…corruptible?”

“He is married with three young children. However, we know that he has, for many years, looked but not touched, as it were. Surely this is exactly the type of challenge you desire,” I answered.

Sherlock had the effrontery to snort, “What is it you suggest to me? To seduce a repressed and fearful dullard? Who would be, so to speak, delivered defenceless into my hands, whom a first compliment would not fail to intoxicate, and whom curiosity will perhaps more readily entice than love. Twenty others can succeed and these as well as I. And if, in his relief from his self-imposed torture, he does fall in love with me, then I should have him on my hands.” He smirked, “Both literally and figuratively, for if he has denied himself so long, then I should get but a moment’s worth of pleasure out of him.”

“He is devout, and seemingly fond of his wife and family. It may well prove more of a bout than you suppose. He is handsome and wealthy with a lovely estate in Surrey. A change of air will do you good.” If nothing else, I did hope that removing him from London’s miasmas might awaken something within him.

“Dull.” He paused and seemed to consider. “If I do this, what will you give me in return?”

I said, “An increase in your allowance?” which I still had the manage of.

In answer he twisted the large ruby ring he wore on the middle finger of his right hand—a gift from some former lover—and gazed at me mockingly. Though he enjoyed luxury, he seldom lived beyond his means. Most of his allowance went into his wardrobe, although he seldom followed faddish nonsense, trusting his own impeccable taste in what suited him best. He dined well when entertained by his devotees, but left alone, he seemed to subsist entirely on Laudanum, tobacco and coffee.

At last I asked, “Well, what then?”

His answer surprised me. “An invitation to your club.”

“To my club?” I asked. “Why on earth would you want an invitation to The Diogenes?”

He rolled his eyes then rose and came towards me, finally pressing so close to me that we were nearly nose to nose. “Come now, Mycroft. Everyone in London knows that The Diogenes is The Hellfire Club. There may be silence in the halls above, but there are regularly screams in the dungeons beneath.” (I tell you nothing that you do not already know, my dear Missus A__. Your husband is a member.)

I pulled back as much as I could, pressed up against the mantelpiece as I was. “There are a half a dozen clubs of that nature in London alone that would be delighted to offer you invitations. Why should you wish to come to mine?”

I knew the answer before he said it, “ _Because_ it’s yours.” He smirked again, and at last relented, moving away from me with a flourish of his robe.

I offered a compromise. “Come to the theatre with me tonight. You can see and perhaps meet Lord D___, and decide he is to your taste. Then…we can discuss the terms.”

He flicked his hand at me and started from the room.

“Sherlock?” I asked unsure of his answer.

Over his shoulder he called, “If I am to go to the theatre this evening I need to send for my barber and dress.”

I took it as a victory until he paused at the door to his bedroom and turned to ask, “Mycroft? When you take me to The Diogenes,” he lowered his eyes and then flicked them back up to meet my gaze, “will you collar me yourself?”

Ah, my dear friend, I fear that I fled. As I said, he was very beautiful.

_(cont.)_


	2. Letter 2

Well, that was tedious, brother dear. And I am not just referring to the play. Your Lord D__ is a dullard amongst dullards. It is as if he exhales stupidity on all around him. I felt as if he were a succubus of thought, sucking even me dry. And speaking of which, your plan is far too easy. We were in one another’s company in the WC and he did look, though did not touch. As to him, Lady D__ must be a remarkable gardener to gather sap from such a withered tree.

No, your little amusement does not amuse me. Do it yourself for England’s glory. Once more unto that breach, n’est-ce pas? The exercise will do you good.

Though I must thank you on one account. I have been out of London society for far too long. Who was that gentleman with the imaginary limp who was applauded when he entered the theater? He was not nobility. His chin is far too strong for that. Of a modestly prepossessing appearance, but unremarkable and rather short. A soldier, that much was obvious, and displaying his tanned skin for all the world to see. Yet none of that explains the deference granted him. One passes ruined soldiers begging for alms in the street at every turn and they are not so honored. And indeed, the praise made him most ill at ease. It is clear he is not rich, nor particularly well connected in London, for if he were who would let him go forth dressed such? Yet, the ladies were nearly swooning at his feet. A most curious figure.

Must close. Have acquired several new specimens to dissect.

Adieu, yr. affectionate brother,

SH

Baker Street, 7th April, 17**


	3. Letter 3

My dear Sherlock,

I know that in your perusals of the broadsheets you tend to focus on the morbid and salacious, but I thought that even you would have heard of Sir John Watson, the hero of Mysore. He was appointed The Most Honourable Military Order of the Bath for saving twenty-two men in his regiment when they were cut off from the main force. Apparently, despite some of his men having major injuries, he kept them from dying of infection for the nearly two weeks before the rescue came. Even the two men whose limbs he had to amputate. Quite remarkable. The fashionable society ladies are at odds with one another over which of them will be able to persuade him to break his vow. His wife, you know, died while he was fighting and he has publically sworn himself to celibacy in her memory. A modern Sir Galahad. I did not believe such men existed in our jaded age.

But to return to our business. I am not asking you to have a philosophical discourse with Lord D__, only to get him into bed. You cannot tell me that all of your partners have been scintillating conversationalists. One tumble is all I ask, and then you can be on your merry way. I know that you have done more for less in your time. 

And do make haste. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly. Then you may go back to whatever amusements you wish with my blessing. I remain

Your affectionate brother,  
Mycroft

Whitehall, 7April, 17**


	4. Letter 4

London is boring. Have decided to take to the countryside. Send to Lord D___ to invite me for fortnight stay.  
SH  
Baker Street, 9 April, 17**


	5. Letter 5

Dear Lord D__,

What a pleasure it was to see you at the theater the other evening and to present my brother Sherlock Holmes. He asked me most especially to remember him to you and to say how much he regretted that you and he had so little time to speak to one another alone as he was charmed by your conversation and would get to know you better.

I know that you have returned to Hertfordshire to celebrate Easter with your children and your good wife. My brother has recently expressed a desire to escape the confines of London, and I feel that it would do his health well to visit the countryside while spring is in bloom. I thought that it might be an ideal time for you to invite him down to H___ Manor for a fortnight of robust English exercise and healthful relaxation in good company.

He awaits your kind invitation.

Most sincerely yours,  
Mycroft Holmes

Whitehall, 9th April, 17**


	6. Letter 6

Lord, sir, deeply pleased to offer an invitation to your brother, post haste. We’ll soon get him on the back of a horse, and give him a good ride. Could organize a hunt for him as well, and our other guest, Sir John Watson. Might have heard of him? Hero of Mysore. Saved my brother’s life, you know. Says he doesn’t hunt, but we’ll soon put him right.

Might we have the honor of your presence as well? Know the wife would be damn pleased to meet you as well as your brother. An honor knowing you, sir. A real honor.

Y’r obedient servant,  
Lord D__

H___ Manor, Hertfordshire England, 9th April, 17**


	7. Letter 7

Sherlock, if I could retrieve my letter to Lord D__, I would. I should have suspected that you had ulterior motives from the ease with which you acquiesced. How cunning you must think yourself. Telling you of Sir John’s honor was as a Toreador waving his cape before a bull. You desire him only because you believe him to be unattainable. I urge you now to LEAVE HIM BE. I will not appeal to your decency for I sometimes despair that you have any. I appeal then to your vanity. I believe that Sir John is too good a man to be trifled with and will thwart you at every turn. And if, by some caprice of fortune, he should be swayed by you, what will you gain? Your rivals are a ghost and God. Do not flatter yourself that you will supplant them. If you overcome his love of God, he will still be in fear of the Devil and get no joy nor give you any pleasure that is not tinged with remorse.

And how little glory even if you succeed. London will not thank you for tarnishing its favorite son. You will wear the humiliation of defeat in public, or suffer success in silence. What is your triumph if you cannot boast of it?

No, go to Hertfordshire with the purpose of seducing the simple traitor, Lord D__. Bring him to bed and gain some proof that we can hold above him. You won’t be able to humiliate him publicly, but you will have the pleasure of knowing that you have placed him in a position of abject obedience.

Don’t make me order you.

Your always loving brother,  
Mycroft

Whitehall, 9th April, 17**


	8. Letter 8

Sir John Watson to Michael Stamford, Physician, St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London

 

Dear Michael,

Your letter went first to my lodgings, then to Harriet’s and finally followed me here, so I only just received it this morning. Sorry to have run off without saying goodbye, but London was becoming intolerable. It’s as if every woman in London has decided that I am fair game. I know, I know. I can almost hear you saying what a terrible problem to have, and once I might have agreed with you, but there will never be another woman in the world for me but Mary, and I cannot even look at another without comparing them to her. Lord D__’s invitation was a Godsend.

It is lovely here. I still find myself terrified to be invited into these homes. I am just a simple man with simple tastes, but once you have become a knight, apparently all doors are open. I’m so afraid that I will do the wrong thing and embarrass everyone.

Lord D and his wife seem decent. They have three children. James, 16, Celeste 15 and Julia, 13. The conversation is rather simple, or rather it was. A most curious young man arrived yesterday. He’s called Sherlock Holmes. The name seems familiar—something to do with an assassination attempt on the King? He’s a bit arrogant and sometimes rude, but when he sees me—I suppose I make a face or something—he apologizes to whomever he’s insulted. But he has enlivened the conversation. He seems to know everything about everything, including me. I mean, I know that my name’s been in the newspapers, but even so, he knew things that would never be in the papers, such as how I don’t get on with Harriet. He also said the most extraordinarily rude thing when we first met. He told me that my limp was imaginary. Can you imagine the cheek? And he said he’d prove it to me. I asked if he was going to steal my cane and leave me to fall down. And do you know what he said? That when the time came I would leave it behind myself without even realizing it. And yet, I find him charming company. He asks about my ideas on medicine and has offered several of his own theories regarding decomposition. It seems he’s a bit of an amateur scientist as well.

He also plays the violin. Miss Celeste accompanied him last night on the pianoforte. Or rather, she limped along and he did his best to keep up some semblance of a melody. This morning I heard him playing alone in the music room. I didn’t know that a violin could make such beautiful sounds. I applauded when he finished and he seemed terribly flustered to have been overheard. I didn’t mention it to the others. I hope that we will be able to hear him play without having to humor Miss C.

I must get this to the messenger with the family’s letters.

Your servant,  
John Watson

Wednesday, 11th April, 17**


	9. Letter 9

Michael Stamford, Physician, St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London to Sir John Watson, H___ Manor, Hertfordshire

 

Dear Johnny,

The name Sherlock Holmes seems familiar? Gracious, John, has your injury addled your brain? He’s only the most infamous man in London! You’ve heard those rumors that he stopped an assassination attempt on the King by Catholics? Supposedly he was knighted for it, but as he never uses the title, no one is sure. But he’s notorious for having seduced hundreds of people—high and low, male and female, old, young—it doesn’t matter. So gird your loins, Johnny! They say he’s quite mad and dangerous to know and no one’s reputation is safe around him. I wouldn’t have thought that a Member of Parliament would have him in his home.

I’ve also heard that he and his brother Lord Mycroft Holmes are descendents of John Dee and that he’s an alchemist. How else to explain the things he knows and his amorous successes, or his brother having no position in government but still having the ear of the King? It sounds like you’re already half-bewitched and you’re not even a sodomite.

But in all seriousness, John, be careful. The brothers Holmes are considered dangerous. Patrons of the hospital here say that they, the brothers, never take a step or utter a word without having some Machiavellian end in view. Mark my words, if he’s there with you and his Lordship’s family, he’s there with some ulterior purpose, probably political. Don’t let yourself get caught up in it.

Come and stay with me and the missus when you return to London. I and many others would like to learn about the new ideas you used out there to save lives. Don’t lock yourself away from the world, John. It’s not what Mary would have wanted.

With affection,  
Michael

12th April, 17**


	10. Letter 10

Brother, you wound me! As if I could not easily maintain two lovers at once without either suspecting my attentions to the other. I recall a bawdy month in Cornwall when my bedroom was so ideally situated between those of the master and the mistress of the house that I could go from one t’other without anyone being the wiser. You need not fear that I am not up to the task. You must know that I am _always up_ for the task. There is a quite striking footman who enjoys being buggered and I have added him to my dance card as well. I need all of the entertainments I can find to keep myself from going quite mad at the hands of Lord Dull and his family. They are all brutally healthy in that raw, horsey way. Lady D looks as if she could win the Derby without a horse beneath her. And the younger Lady C plays piano as if she has hooves. It took all of my reserves of patience not to slam the lid upon her fingers in the name of Euterpe.

Are you quite certain that you have not sent me on a fool’s errand? I cannot imagine Lord Dull having the wit to be a spy. I don’t even believe that he speaks French! As a test, I offered, “ Ce cul est une véritable splendeur” (which is woefully untrue). His response? “Eh? I was never much good at Latin.” I did have the satisfaction of hearing Sir John giggle. He didn’t understand what I said (thank GOD! I should far more truthfully say it of him), but had intelligence enough to recognize the beauty of la langue française. He has the most delightful giggle.

As to the other, I am not sure that Lord D speaks that language either. I sent my man to fetch him so that I could compliment him on the wallpaper, or some such rubbish, and contrived to be still enjoying my bath when he arrived. How I acted surprised and most apologetic, and ‘did he mind if I just had the servant dry me off so that I could dress?’ He was slack-jawed as I rose from the water and allowed my skin to be rubbed raw to fill his senses, but it was no different from his usual drooling mien. If his manhood had not shown its interest, I should have feared that I was getting old. And there is where the matter…stands, as it were.

But Sir John…ah, there is a far more challenging game. In addition to that damned oath, I must overcome his supposed disinterest in the male form. There is the foe for me; there is the goal at which I dare to aim. You know how keen are my desires, how I brush aside obstacles to them. It is so refreshing to find one who does not practice deception as we do. In John, there is no guile. He laughs when he is amused and frowns when he is not. And most charmingly he does not tolerate falsity in others.

Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us? What we call happiness is hardly even a pleasure. Many have said that I have no heart, and I have been resigned to its absence, but John revives—nothing so cheap as love—but rather ardour for both the hunt and game. The only thing which frightens me is the time this adventure is going to take. I cannot play my usual games with John. He would assuredly see through a ruse as obvious as the one in the bath. To become truly happy, I need him to give himself to me of his own free will. I have begun to ‘admit’ to my worst traits in order to combat the stories which I am sure will come to his ears,. He foolishly believes that there is a ‘good’ man within me. I will use that optimism to woo him from the God he loves. Let him believe in virtue and sacrifice it to me. He will resist his fall, will fight it as a warrior, but I will win.

Au revoir, Mycroft.

SH

12th April, 17**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much, much thanks to archea2 for the brilliant French phrase. I also stole heavily from de Laclos for this one--scary when it works.


	11. Letter 11

Dear Michael,

Thank you for the warnings regarding Mr. Holmes (he was offered a knighthood but turned it down—I wish I’d know that was possible), but since my last letter he has been very candid with me regarding his past vices. I believe that many of his sins arise from his abhorrence of boredom and need for stimulus (a problem I share). His mind is remarkable, moving so quickly his conversation is often hard to follow and on such a range of topics. This is the ideal of the modern man! You must allow that he does many good things as well, that case with the King being just one example (and I have been longing to ask him about it). Perhaps many of the stories that circle about him are made by rivals, both in the bedroom and out. I can see how some would be very taken with him, but I cannot believe that he has any dark intentions here. Lord D__ is in opposition in the House of Lords and is a lackadaisical member at that (I fear that Lord D__ is rather a simple man), and he can’t have any machinations towards anyone in the household. Perhaps he has some lover in the district, but you cannot fault an unattached man for that.

He has told me that he came to the countryside for his health, a worrying shortness of breath while in London, and I can well believe him. The metropolis seems to have become even more filthy while I was abroad. Though he demurred, I insisted on examining him. When I pressed my ear to his chest I heard no abnormalities in heart or lung, but I have told him that he should smoke less. I enjoy a good pipe after dinner, but he seems to puff away constantly, punctuating the air with the stem as he speaks in his passion. He could also stand to eat more as he is devilish thin, his ribs stand out in sharp relief when his chest is bare.

No, if he has been guilty in the past I believe he is seeking a more peaceful path now, even if it is only temporary. He really is a most fascinating man and I am enjoying his company immensely.

Please give my regards to your lovely wife. When I return to London, I will certainly take you up on your invitation.

I remain your servant,  
John Watson

13th April (and a suitably miserable day—cold and rainy here), 17**


	12. Letter 12

To Sherlock Holmes, H___ Manor, Hertfordshire England

My dear Sherlock,

Can you but hear yourself? “He has the most delightful giggle?” “He does not tolerate falsity in others.” “He laughs when he is amused and frowns when he is not.” How revolting. Are you, by some tragedy in _love_? Have you taken leave of your senses? Well, if I cannot persuade you to stop, then go with my blessing. Have your dalliance. If he cuts you, you will hate him. If he yields, you will despise him. Nothing will cure you from this madness faster than his reciprocation. Game begins to rot once it is brought down, after all.

But have you forgotten the reason I secured your invitation? By now I would have thought Lord D__ would be completely under your thumb as well as being completely underneath you. Perhaps you are growing old after all. You say that he does not speak French? Perhaps he is unaware that he is being made a traitor. There, there is a puzzle for you to solve, as well as a game to play. Find out who controls our little Lord. Then, only then, will we discuss the question of your reward.

For now, I remain, your always affectionate brother,  
Mycroft

Whitehall, 13th April, 17**


	13. Letter 13

To Mycroft Holmes, Whitehall, London

Do shut up, Mycroft. I well know what cure I need. It is very necessary that I should have this little barber-surgeon, if I would save myself from the ridicule of being in love with him. And I have not been entirely idle on your behalf. I have turned my catamite footman into my own spy. He will be bringing me the family letters before they are seen from now on. I will soon know all that Lord D__ knows, and perhaps a great deal more besides.

I had a triumph of a most unusual kind today with my dear physician. As you and I both spotted immediately at the theater, his limp is imaginary, for he is unaware of it when he stands, only when he attempts to move it does he recall that he is supposed to be injured. I have told him so, but as a man of reason, or at any rate one who certainly does not mistake me for the Messiah even on this holy weekend, he did not believe me, and I knew that he would need to discover it on his own. Well, it turns out that circumstance has conspired with me to make my point.

The youngest child had received a new horse from her indulgent father on her birthday some weeks ago and was determined to ride it today despite the bad weather. Proving once again what an ass Lord D__ is, the horse was completely unsuitable for a child, far too spirited and temperamental. We were all brought out into the courtyard to view her present. No sooner had the child been helped into the saddle by the groom than the horse began to pull and to rear up. The groom lost hold of the bridle, and it seemed certain that the girl would be thrown or carried away by the frenzied animal. But in an instant, Sir John was there, catching hold of the reins to bring the beast under control. When he had carried the screaming child to her equally screaming mother, and after he had been praised by all and sundry for his bravery, I offered him his walking stick that he had discarded upon seeing the danger to the child.

He held it in his hands, and I could see by the shifting of his muscles that he was testing his leg. When he looked up at me again, he wore a look of such confusion that I longed to touch his face in a soothing gesture, but then was not the time. He said nothing, and I left him alone to consider what he had learned, what I had known, but in his eyes I saw the first glimmers of adoration. The confusion he felt was both for the miraculous healing of his leg, and for his growing attraction to me, of that I am certain. I have only to make myself indispensible to him, and his gratitude and admiration will soon deepen into something more.

SH  
April 14th, 17**


	14. Chapter 14

To Michael Stamford, London from Sir John Watson, H___ Manor, Hertfordshire

Dear Michael,

Had the most extraordinary experience today. By dint of action I realized that my limp, the pain in my leg, was purely imaginary. I won’t go into the details now as I want to send this quickly, but suffice to say that Mr. Holmes was correct. Were I not a man of reason, I would almost believe in your stories of wizardry. I do not know whether to be grateful to him, or afraid of him.

But what really strikes me is the implication that this could have for medicine. How many others are suffering from illnesses that their minds create? And if we could but destroy that illusion, might we free them from their symptoms completely?

Must think on this more. Have taken to my room early to sort my thoughts.

Your affectionate friend,  
John


	15. Diary of Sherlock Holmes, Easter, April 14th, 17**

As it was clear today, I proposed that John and I walk to church for Easter service. He still felt unsteady on his pins because of disuse and brought his cane but he used it more to beat the hedgerows than to aid his walking.

It is most peculiar, but I find that John draws more out of me than I mean to reveal. Not that I have lost control of the game, of course, but he leads me into strange discussions.

The family, being Catholic, went to mass and so we were left alone for our ramble. I told him that I was an atheist, but agreed to accompany him. He has decided, I believe, that his mission is to save me from myself. As we walked, I asked about his peculiar oath. I thought I might be able to show him the folly of denial.

“I find purity very restful every now and then,” I told him, “but I cannot imagine a life without pleasure. Do you really mean to deny yourself for as long as you live? As a man of medicine, can you even think that is healthy?”

He blushed and said, “An ascetic may limit what he eats and how much, but he must still eat. I grant myself release, but…”

That granted ME a pleasing image, but I didn’t allow myself to indulge in it. “Then why not with a woman. Or a boy, if you prefer. It need be nothing more than release.” In truth, I was relieved that he was not one of those queer fellows who feel no physical desires, for whom chastity is no hardship. That would have made my plan rather more difficult to achieve.

He went on, “Once I would have agreed. Before my marriage, I sowed my share of wild oats in many a country, but after I met Mary, when I found out what love was, I could no more go to bed with a woman I didn’t love than I could…”

“Walk without your cane?” I asked.

He started and then smiled in acquiescence to my jape, but went on, “No, I loved Mary with all my heart. I can’t imagine ever being in love like that again.”

“Ah, but you were only married, what a year? How do you know that she wouldn’t have become a shrill harridan with time? Familiarity breeds contempt after all,” I pushed on.

“You don’t believe in love?” he asked.

“It is like your God, I have never seen it,” I said, “What is called love seems at best mawkish sentimentality, and at worst base lust. It cannot last.”

“Perhaps you have never given love time to grow. Or, you have not yet found the right person. Someone worthy of you.” I was once again touched by this tender concern he seemed to have for my continued happiness.

I replied, “It’s true that I’ve gone to bed with people I wouldn’t care to meet, but I have also gone to bed with some of the most brilliant people of the age. Perhaps not my equals, but certainly excellent conversationalists. But all company bores in time.”

“You aren’t modest at all, are you?” He softened this barb with his laugh. “Love is more than conversation. Just as sexual congress is more than the meeting of bodies.”

“Ah,” I retorted, “but does not your God say, ‘It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a help meet for him.’ Would he not wish you to marry again, if only for the purposes of procreation?”

He looked away, his expression sad, lips tight, and I almost regretted my probing of his wound. “Mary couldn’t have children. I knew that when I married her. I married for love. I cannot imagine how empty a marriage would be without it.”

I asked “And what if you were to find love again? Would your God allow you to break your oath or would he want you—and the other person, presumably, if the love were reciprocated—to suffer on alone because of a few foolish words?” By now we were in sight of the church, and I knew that I had but a few more moments to make my point.

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “I do not think that it will happen, but if I should find someone, I would have to pray for God for guidance.”

“Then it is good we are at a church,” I said with a laugh and we went in.


	16. Letter 16

To Michael Stamford, London from Sir John Watson, H___ Manor, Hertfordshire

...as you can imagine, I had to ask how he had known that my limp was imaginary. He gave the most extraordinary answer, “I saw. When you entered the theater many offered you their seats, would have happily carried you, but you refused them all, not through a desire for further suffering or martyrdom, but because you genuinely forgot that you needed assistance. Voila, the assistance was not needed to begin with.”

I still do not know what to make of him. He is so brilliant and yet, he holds humanity in such disdain. For all his liaisons I believe he is the loneliest man I have ever met.

I asked him about the King—I mean the assassination attempt on the King—as we walked back from Easter service. At first I was disappointed. “I shared a mistress with the chief conspirator and she told me,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, sad that what I had hoped might give me further insight into his mind had proved so…mundane.

But then he went on, “I can see you’re disappointed. If I tell you the truth though, you won’t believe it. No one ever does.”

I felt that I had to point out that I wasn’t everyone. “If you weren’t told, then how did you know?”

“I didn’t know. I observed. The Earl of R__, claimed to have renounced his grandfather’s Jacobite beliefs, but my brother suspected that this was not true. He was frequently absent from London, claiming ill health, but when he returned to the city, the wheels of his carriage bore Dover clay, not the Surrey mud of his estate. From there it was a smallish matter of laying a trap for him on his return from France. Treasonous letters were found in a hidden compartment and the rest I left to my brother.”

“Extraordinary! Quite extraordinary!” I ejaculated. He seemed completely taken aback by my reaction, so much so that he stopped in his tracks.

He said, “That’s not what people normally say.”

I asked, “What do people normally say?”

He smiled, “Witchcraft.”

We laughed together at such absurdity and continued our walk. I must convince him to use his brilliance on the side of the angels. Such intelligence is just what this age needs. I believe that, just as he ‘cured’ my limp with reason, I can appeal to his reason, and lead him from this path of self-destruction. He could be a great man.

Must get this to the messenger before his carriage leaves. More later.

Your friend,  
John


	17. Letter 17

Michael Stamford, Physician, St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London to Sir John Watson, H___ Manor, Hertfordshire  
John,

There are rumors flying all over London. Has it occurred to you that his whole purpose in being there is to seduce you? I urge you to cut your visit short and return to London. Stay with Harriet, stay with us. You admitted yourself that you feel out of place amongst these people. They don’t think the way we do. Their morals are not like ours. John, I’m begging you. Sherlock Holmes is not the man you think he is.

Your most sincere friend,  
Michael


	18. Letter 18

SH to MH  
Damn and blast! John saw me emerging from an airing cupboard after a tryst with a housemaid. I can hardly think he could be in any doubt as to what we were up to. He is a man of the world, after all. We were in enough of a déshabillé, flushed and breathless, for there to be no mistake.

Ah, well, it is no matter in the greater battle. It could even serve my purpose, dispelling his suspicions of my intentions after that wretched letter from his wretched friend, this Michael Stamford. I was heartily tempted to burn it after I read it, but the Stamford might mention it in future letters, leading to complications, and so on.

And before you hound me, no, the family’s letters have revealed nothing of note except that their friends are all as dull as they. (Although it seems that the young Lady Cecile believes herself in love with me. We shall file that away for another day.)

I was partnered with Lord Dull at Whist last night, and took the opportunity to stroke his calves beneath the table. I thought he would reach his crisis then and there, so red was his face, so labored his breathing. I allowed him a tantalizing grope of my arse in the corridor, but then played coy. He will flatter himself that I cannot resist him, despite my best efforts. Lord knows how I will muster my interest when the time arrives. The things I do for you, dear Brother. I expect untold pleasures at your hands when this is done.

Your interminably bored brother,  
SH


	19. Diary of Sherlock Holmes, 16th April, 17**

I have taken my first most measured step forward. Until now it has all been a menuet of half-steps to the side and back. After the miserable gray of the last few days, this morning broke bright and warm with the promise of spring at last. John and I took a pair of horses and set out on a brisk ride. In fact the day proved so warm, that I convinced John to leave his wig at home. I have told him repeatedly that only the determinedly pompous, such as Mycroft, still wear wigs when not appearing at court and that he should grow out his own hair as it promises to be a lovely color.

We had not ridden more than a half an hour, when the confluence of warm and cold air conspired to bring forth a blinding torrent of rain. It was so sudden and so fierce that we could hardly see beyond the end of our horses’ noses. Riding or even walking back to the house was impossible. Fortunately, we had just then passed near a folly in the shape of a Roman temple. We groped our way back to it on foot, the horses in tow.

The ceiling was low and there was barely room for two grown men, let alone two grown men and two horses. We spread my cloak on the cold stone, and huddled together beneath his. This allowed us to bring the horses in at least part way so that they would not drown, and their bulk blocked some of the draft from the open archway. At first we laughed at our situation as any two men might. We both hoped that the cloudburst would wear itself out in a short matter of minutes as they often do, but the rain continued to pound against the roof of the folly and we continued to be trapped. Our chatter settled back into a comfortable silence and after a short time I realized that John’s weight had increased against me and that his breathing had slowed. In short, he had fallen asleep, his head on my shoulder. It was curious to be in the position I had been planning all week and yet not as I had imagined it—in a warm and comfortable bed—but chilled and wet to the bone in an uncomfortable and ludicrous piece of architecture.

There was a light-brown fuzz on John’s head from where he kept it shaved, and I could smell the pleasing mix of oils and astringents his barber must have used. In sleep he pressed himself even closer, tugging on my coat as if I were a pillow to be plumped for greater comfort. With a woman or a younger man I might have taken liberties, but I was struck by the trust that allowed this seasoned soldier to be so at ease in my company and dared not disturb it by too hasty an action. His hand fell from my coat front to my thigh and I dared let myself place my own hand over his and to rub circles over his knuckles in a familiar gesture.

Nature grants opportunities and snatches them away. There was a sudden crack of thunder, the horses shied and neighed their displeasure and he woke with a start. At first he seemed unaware of our relative positions, struggling first to recall where he was and why, and then as he came back to himself, he looked down to where I still pressed my hand upon his. He looked up from our joined hands to my face and stayed there for some heartbeats as we looked as deeply into one another’s eyes as it is possible for two people to do. He did not remove his hand. I could feel his heartbeat racing. A flush suffused his face and I knew that his heart throbbed with the excitement of attraction, not anger or fear. A second clap of thunder, further off caused him to rouse himself, but he did not look away from my face and I seized his elbow before he could move further away.

“John,” I whispered. I had no idea what I meant to say, only that I hoped to prolong the moment.

“Sherlock,” he replied, then shut his eyes and swallowed. “I— “ But he could not bring himself to complete what I know would have been an expression of his feelings, confused as they might have been. Instead he said, “Listen, the rain has slowed. We should return the house and get the horses rubbed down as well ourselves into dry clothes.”

He fussed with the horses and we rode them at a slow pace back to the stables in silence. He retired immediately to his room and did not come down for dinner. I cannot make up my mind whether to write him a note and slip it beneath his door, or to simply knock and enter. This indecision puzzles me, but I know now that I am on the right track with my soldier.  



	20. Letter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Sir John Watson, to be delivered by hand only

My dear Sir John,  
You do not know me. My name is Mycroft Holmes. Forgive me for having my servant waylay you, but when one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, thus the need for subterfuge.

Never since his extreme youth has my brother taken a step or uttered a word without having some end in view which was, to my sorrow, either selfish or licentious. I wish that I could say that he was led astray by the vehemence of his passions, or like a thousand others, seduced by the errors of his age. One might not forgive his conduct, but still pity him. And I do pity my brother, but not so much as I pity those on whom he preys.

I do not know how much you have seen of him during your stay with Lord D__, but know this: he is a compulsive liar who will say and do anything to get his way. His absence is noted in London, and it is well known that my brother’s greatest pleasure is to corrupt those who think themselves incorruptible. He has brought down high clergymen and nuns long wedded to God with little effort and absolutely no remorse. In short, London is abuzz with the rumor that he is pursuing you.

I know of your reputation as a man of medicine and of your bravery as a soldier. Unlike others, I am certain that nothing that my brother could say or do would cause you to fall under his power, but I would hate for such a noble man as yourself, a true British hero, to be sullied by your association with him.

You may well ask why I am warning you of my brother’s character. This debauchery is like an illness in the blood with him. I do not know if losing our parents caused this disease to take root or some other childhood tragedy of which I, as a brother, am not aware. My sincerest hope is that he should be cured of this madness, but alas, each conquest seems to only inflame his fevered soul. In trusting a good man, a medical man as yourself to not encourage him, indeed to remove yourself from his presence if possible, I pray that a cure might be attempted.

I have faith in your good sense and wise action.

Most sincerely yours,  
Mycroft Holmes  
Whitehall, 16th April, 17**  



	21. Letter 21 - SH to MY

Hero of Mysore be damned! The coward has fled in the early hours! Apparently he received a message—I know not how as my footman swears it was not delivered with the post—and departed abruptly for London, claiming a family emergency. I believe there was no message, rather, confused by his feelings for me, he ran like a frightened rabbit. I cannot credit his perfidy.

Staying on is now intolerable. Will be returning to London. Granted Lord D__ a fumbling encounter and he is now my slave, although I have had girls fresh from the convent who knew more what to do when presented with such a plaything. One would think he had not one of his own such was his ineptitude. I had to lend myself a hand else we should have been in that greenhouse for hours. I begin to wonder if Lady D__ found her pleasures elsewhere.

SH  
9 in the morning, 19th April, 17**


	22. Letter 22 - Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes

Mycroft Holmes, Whitehall, to Sherlock Holmes, H__ Manor, Hertfordshire  
Dear Sherlock,  


Surely now you must see that Sir John is not worth your time?  I am disappointed that he has proved, as you say, so cowardly.  Perhaps even his knighthood is ill deserved?  At any rate, if he has fled, there is nothing more to be done on that front.  I would advise you to stay with Lord D__.  You know that his acquiescence means little without written proof for us to hold as a sword of Damocles above his head.  Stay at least until the end of the fortnight.  Returning to London in haste will simply expose yourself to ridicule as all of society will well be aware of Sir John’s return.  You will look like a desperate lovelorn swain who has been refused.  Stay in Hertfordshire and you will show that you are as indifferent as you have ever been. 

Your concerned brother,  
Mycroft


	23. Letter 23 - Lady D__ to Mycroft Holmes

To the most honorable Sir Lord Mycroft, Whitehall, from Lady H__, H__ Manor, Hertfordshire  
Dear ~~Mr. Lord Sir~~ Your Lordship,  


I am returning your letter as it arrived after your brother had already departed for London.  I must apologize most deeply that it missed him.  He said that he had heard word from you that he was needed on official business but perhaps it was some form of brotherly understanding, I am sure I don’t know.    Perhaps I should have sent the letter after him?  But I thought it better I should send it back to you unopened, for you to send to your brother as you will know better where he is going. 

Our little nest is quite empty now, as Sir John was forced to return to London as well with a family emergency, and my husband, Lord D__ has felt it better that he return to London as well.  Government requires so much time.  But I am so foolish, of course you must know that, being so important yourself. 

I would offer our humble home at any time you might need an escape from the pressures of London.  Indeed I cannot understand how any person can bear to live there, except I suppose that the government is there and the King is there, though it would be much nicer to live elsewhere.  Perhaps you could suggest that the government be moved to Windsor?

But I have lost the thread of my letter which was to return your letter.  I hope that it catches up to your brother.  But then you might be able to speak to him as you are both in London together without needing the letter at all?  Oh, and I hope that this letter finds you in good health.

Your most humble, devoted, sincere, obedient servant,  
Lady Honoria D__  
H__ Manor, Hertfordshire  
19th April, 17**


	24. Letter 24 - SH to MH (see warnings on this one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING/AUTHOR'S NOTE: Het-Lesbian porn. Feel free to skip. There are no plot points except that Sherlock attempts to prove to Mycroft, London (and himself) that nothing has been changed by his meeting with John Watson. Basically, I really like vintage porn (always have) and wanted to see if I could write in that style. I haven't written Sherlock-het since my very first story and if there was ever a version of him where I could do it, this was it. 
> 
> There is one sentence that might, possibly be construed as dub-con, but more in surprise than force.
> 
> The line "the tradesman's entrance" was used by our own Zoe Telford in the TV Movie "Beau Brummell." It's not a great movie, but it's quite funny. Can't find the exact moment, but take a look at 7:55. Also featuring Phil Davis and Jonathan Aris. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QunT9eL-3Q
> 
> Anyway, read on if you like that sort of thing.

Good afternoon, Mycroft,

I cannot believe that I allowed myself to be away from the pleasures of London for so long. I spent the evening at many of my familiar haunts in a quest to remove the “taste” of Hertfordshire from my palette. At the house of Mrs. H__ I encountered two of my particular favorites, Miss Sarah and Miss Molly. I believe that you have enjoyed Molly’s charms before. Sarah expects a “gift” for her company, but Molly asks for little more than a good dinner, perhaps a trinket and a tenderness after. Of course, Molly is often reluctant to leave in the morning, but perhaps she is not so reluctant to leave others beds as she is mine.

We returned to my rooms and opened some of father’s finest clarets, and it was not long before the ladies felt the heat of the room most keenly. Sarah, who’s bosom has been much remarked upon (and certainly it is never burdened with a fichu), was soon down to her shift and stays. Molly feigned her innocence as she is want to do, but was soon unlaced by her companion, and they entertained one another most amusingly with kisses and caresses for a time as I smoked and watched.

Shortly I found my own clothes too confining as well, and I suggested we withdraw to the bedroom. The greedy Sarah found her favorite mount and took the reins. She persuaded Molly to take a lady’s seat, her thighs about my head and I was baptized well by both women before I felt my own pressing needs.

Have you taken your pleasure with Molly back to front? (Not at the tradesman’s entrance, although Sarah is not averse to opening that door.) I recommend it. Particularly with Sarah positioned beneath so her tongue could make easy sport where Molly and I were joined. Molly’s cries that it was too much, she was dying, she was undone, soon brought me to my first roaring climax of the evening.

Do you find, brother dear, that you lose your vigor after release, or worse when dulled with alcohol? (I have a theory that a sluggishness of the blood might be too blame, or I would not ask). I have been disappointed by many a male lover when they retreated after just one set. Fortunately, I have spirited blood and was quickly ready to rejoin the game which the ladies had kept in progress. Sarah lay across Molly as a man might do and presented me with a pretty choice of ports. I found myself for once indecisive, and so alternated my thrusts between them. While delightful for a time, eventually one is driven by urgency. I rolled Sarah onto her back and brought us both to a simultaneous finish.

At that the ladies felt a need for a pause and replenishment of energies. I rang for some cold meats and more wine. Thus fortified, we resumed and passed into such a range of positions and pleasures that I can scarce remember them all. They are cleverer than most of their kind, and proposed many a combination that surprised even me.

I woke, as I often do, before either of them, and finding Molly positioned in sleep most appealingly I took advantage so softly that I was almost fully lodged before she woke, but she had no complaints after the initial surprise. Sarah was woken by the vibrations of the bed, and demanded her turn as well before we rose and called for breakfast. I allowed them to take a bath together before they redressed, helping one another with their corsets and panniers and arranging their hair. After they had departed with suitable thanks, I had the sheets changed and returned to bed where I slept like a child until three in the afternoon.

You see my dear brother, I am quite well. You and London have no concerns regarding that.

Your brother,  
SH  
20th April, 17**


	25. Letter 25 - Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes

Mycroft Holmes, Whitehall to Sherlock Holmes, Baker Street

Dear Sherlock,

From your unnecessarily obscene letter, I gather that you are quite well. I am not sure what sending me such description was in aide of, but so be it. As to your question, I assure you that my blood is fine.

I do wish that you had chosen to stay with Lord D__ for longer. It sounds as if you have departed before the deed is done. Most unsatisfactory. I am deeply disappointed in your inability to perform this most basic of tasks.

Write to me when you have actually achieved something of worth.

Your affectionate brother,  
Mycroft  
21 April, 17**


	26. Letter 26 - SH to MH (with enclosure)

Sherlock Holmes, Baker Street to Mycroft Holmes, Whitehall

Here is your proof. I knew he would pursue. Prepare to be quite nauseated, I know I am.

Shall we set next Tuesday for our first visit to the Hellfire? Do you wish me to meet you there or will you send a carriage? I don’t know the protocol for such things. Do let me know. One likes to be prepared.  
SH

 

**My most dearest, most succulent, most luscious, most adored Sherlock,**

**Forgive me for succumbing to the pleasure, or shall I say the necessity of writing you so soon. I beg you to let me see you again. I am half mad with desire. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat since that afternoon in the greenhouse. The pleasures you gave me, the promise you made of more pleasures, I can’t even think. I scarce knew that such pleasures could exist until you, don’t you know. I know they say that such things are a crime but I cannot believe that anything you do could be a crime, my angel, with the face of an angel, the skin of an angel, the body of a God! But for you, I should still be, not happy, but tranquil. I have seen you, repose has fled far away from me, and my happiness is insecure. Send me but a word and my devotion will be yours!**

**I am here in London. I could not bear to be in Hertfordshire knowing you were here. Losing the sweet habit of seeing you every day, watching you as you moved about the house. But perhaps here is better. I cannot see you at all times, but then I need not hide behind indifferent looks when I gaze upon your beauty. Please, please, I am begging, panting after you like a hound after a fox. You are like a bitch in heat to me. I could sniff at you all day.**

**Tell me but when and where and I am there.**

**Your, humblest, supplicating, desperate servant,  
Francis (Lord D__)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: There's quite a bit of original de Laclos text in the enclosed letter.


	27. Letter 27 - MH to SH

Mycroft Holmes, Whitehall to Sherlock Holmes, Baker Street

 

**No.**


	28. Letter 28 - SH to MH

**No?**


	29. Letter 29 - SH to MH

No to what? Next Tuesday? I am amenable to another date, though I would prefer it to be sooner rather than later.

No to sending a carriage? Very well. I can take a hansom, although I thought you might want me to be dressed (or undressed) for the occasion.

But you surely cannot mean no to all. That would be unthinkable from a man of honor. I have done as you asked, despite the great hardship to myself. You have your written proof—the dolt signed it so prettily. What more do you want? The stained and rent garments? Soiled sheets?

I expect your more satisfactory response within the hour.

Your brother,  
SH  
11 am, 21 April, 17**


	30. Letter 30 - Mycroft Holmes, Whitehall to Sherlock Holmes, Baker Street

I have considered your observations and the poor man’s letter, and I agree with your assessment. Lord D__ is so inept, it is quite likely that he is being used by a more intelligent player. He may be unaware of this person’s intentions and so would be able to tell us nothing, no matter how much pressure we bring to bear. Perhaps if you had stayed in Hertfordshire and continued to intercept the post, you could have deduced who this person might be. I fear that without further association with Lord D__, however distasteful, we will never identify the traitor.

And so you see, you have not completed the task I set you. There can be no discussion of a reward until it has been earned, don’t you agree?

If, however, you would prefer to abandon the project because you find it too taxing or beyond your abilities at this time, you have only to say and we will speak no more about it. You know that your happiness is always my primary concern.

Your affectionate brother,  
Mycroft  
1 pm, 21 April, 17**


	31. Letter 31 - SH to MH

Very well. The game continues.


	32. Letter 32 - Sherlock Holmes to Sir John Watson

Dear John,

I hope that your family emergency has been satisfactorily resolved and that all are well. I was very worried when my first letter was returned unopened. I hope this one, care of your sister, finds its way to you. You cannot imagine my sorrow at not having the chance to bid you au revoir when you were forced to depart the D__’s so abruptly, without the chance to say good-bye.

I too returned to London after you left. Not to speak ill of our hosts, but their conversation was limited, nothing like the spirited dialogs that you and I enjoyed. And without you there, I found that the countryside lost much of its appeal. But now that we are both in London, there is no reason for us not to resume our friendship. When the weather is fair, I often walk in Regent’s Park. Perhaps you could join me on my morning rambles.

I value your insights so much. In truth, observing your bravery, your nobility, your serenity, I was moved to examine, as you suggested, my own past conduct. I have not been fortunate in my circle of acquaintances—I do not call them friends—encouraged and rewarded for my baser skills while my intelligence, my higher interests were mocked, disparaged or worse, feared. Had I friends, had I had a friend such as you in my formative years, I might have been a better man. It is my fervent hope that continued association with you, might yet improve my character.

Please let me know a time when we might meet.

Your most ardent friend,  
SH


	33. Letter 33 - Sir John Watson to Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Dear Sherlock,

Thank you for your concern. My family is well.

It is doubtful that I will remain in London. I find it very different from the city I left just a few years ago, so I must decline your invitation to resume our walks in the park.

I was pleased to hear of your desire to improve yourself, however, I fear that I am not the best person to help you. I recommend that you speak to a vicar or a priest for advice on matters of the soul.

Sincerely,  
John Watson  
Monday, 23 April, 17**


	34. Letter 34 - To Mr. Holmes, Baker Street from B. Taylor, Footman, H__ Manor, Hertfordshire

Dear Sir,

I been looking at the family’s post as you wanted. I used the way that you showed me of softening the wax and then sealing it up again so no one’s the wiser. So far there is nothing much.

The mister writes to the missus every second day about his business. She writes him about the house. Dull stuff it is. Little miss writes all her friends. She is still hot for you, sir. It is funny to read. Young mister wants to be a soldier now like that Sir Watson what was here. Ladyship writes to her friends about dresses and menus and things. Nice for them as can, I always say.

This is all I have to tell. Do you want me to keep on?

Y’r servant,  
Bernard  
23 April, 17**


	35. Letter 35 - Sherlock Holmes to John Watson

Dear John,

I am so unhappy to hear that you plan to leave London. London needs such men of reason as you. Have you already taken a house elsewhere? If not, can I—I am sure with other voices—implore you stay? And if you must leave, may I write to you? I do not believe the advice of vicars would do me any good—I have been sent to them before. But I look to you as inspiration for better behavior. I thought—perhaps it was my vanity, but I hope not—that we shared something, a connection such as the great friendships of legend, such as that of Gilgamesh and Enkidu, Achilles and Patroclus. Please tell me whether you felt the same. Put me out of this misery, this fear that I have somehow offended you. Let me see you before you go.

Your most humble (and obedient servant),  
SH


	36. Letter 36 - Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes

Well?  
~MH


	37. Letter 37 - SH to MH

Urgh. Don't be tiresome, Mycroft.

But as you will not stop hounding me, rest assured that I have everything in hand. The footman in Hertfordshire sends me daily reports on the correspondence there, and I have bribed the butler at his Lordship's townhouse to intercept and report on the letters here, as well as keeping me informed of any visitors. I know that you will be delighted to pay.

My tailor has just shown me a lovely royal purple velvet for a coat and breeches as well as a silk brocade for a matching waistcoat. Additionally, I need new plate. Most of mine was broken when a dinner party became raucous a few months back. Oh, and I need a new hat.

Shall I send the bills on to you, then?  
SH


	38. Letter 38 - Sir John Watson to Sherlock Holmes

Dear Sherlock,

No, you have not offended me, but forgive me if I mistrustful of what you say. In Hertfordshire it was easy to ignore your reputation, but in London it is impossible. It is difficult to judge your sincerity when I have seen you fake it so well.

I am only human, Sherlock. I am not a paragon of virtue. I am just a simple man who is often confused by the manners and mores of the society into which I have been thrust. The ways of you and your set are alien to me. I have been warned that while I might hope, as you claim to desire, to be a good influence on you, you cannot help but be a bad influence on me. I am not made of stone and I dare not set myself up as an ideal for you to follow.

I beg you, if you truly care for me and consider me your friend, if you wish to change your life, remove yourself from London, from the flatters and decadent hangers-on. Find a focus for your brilliance. I sincerely believe that you can be a better man.

Your friend,  
John  
Wednesday, 25 April, 17**


	39. Letter 39 - SH to Bernard Taylor, Footman, H__ Manor, Hertfordshire

Dear Bernard,  
I need more. I realize this is tedious, but I need you to copy out the letters between Lord and Lady D__. I am prepared to double what I am paying.  
SH  
26 April, 17**


	40. Letter 40 - MH to SH

Dear Sherlock,  
I am sincerely disappointed to learn that you are still pursuing John Watson. I thought that you had learned your lesson. Accept that you have failed. He does not wish to continue his acquaintance with you. I understand that he cut you most decisively at Countess G__’s party last evening, practically slipping out the back as you came in the front. Really, Sherlock, it is embarrassing.  
Your concerned brother,  
Mycroft  
28 April, 17**


	41. Letter 41 - Sherlock Holmes to Sir John Watson

Dear John,  
I well understand your concern. Were I in your place, I might feel the same. May I know who accuses me so that I might defend myself? I wish that I could show you how much I have changed since meeting you. All of my former acquaintances have commented.

Please, do one thing for me before you leave London and me forever. Meet me at the Old Bailey Monday afternoon at the trial of Angelo Ciramella. You wished that I might apply my mind to good? You shall see proof of it.  
Your friend,  
SH  
28 April, 17**


	42. Letter 42 - Francis, Lord D__ to Mr. Sherlock Holmes

_Your eyes are like slivers of quicksilver_  
And Cupid’s bow has its echo in your lips.  
When I’m with you, all my senses are a quiver.  
I adore you. You hold my heart in your grip. 

Sherlock, please let me see you again. I beg of you. I am half mad with desire. I know you say that for you to come to my home or I to go to yours would compromise me, but I don’t care. I would sacrifice all for you.  
Your slave,  
Francis  
29 April, 17**


	43. Letter 43 - SH to Francis, Lord D__

I too long to see you again. Are the members of your club discreet? Perhaps you could invite me there for the night.  
SH  
30 April, 17**


	44. Letter 44 - Bernard Taylor, Footman, H__ Manor to Sherlock Holmes

Have copied out the latest letters from Lord D__ to his missus.  
Bernard  
30 April

**London is dull without you, old Bean, but I muddle through. That damned popinjay, Pitt makes a terrible ruckus to end the war, and to tell the truth, we are stretched thin. After the Jersey attack by the damn Frenchies we daren’t leave the islands unprotected and continue to keep a warship there. They’ve told Cornwallis to hunker down somewhere on the coast of that damnable continent. And the damned loyalists are running scared of the revolutionaries. I tell you, there’s not a gentleman to be found in the Americas. Sending reinforcements to the West Indies as well and then all the trouble in India. In all we have our entire navy out there fighting the ungrateful heathens.**

**Don’t know why you want to hear these ramblings. Give my love to the children. Pity about Julia’s horse. I suppose the damn thing will have to be shot.**

**Yr. affectionate husband,**  
Francis  
26 April, 17** 

oOo

**Dear Mrs. Richardson,  
So good to hear from you again. There is little to tell here, now that our guests are gone. I was unable to purchase that book you requested, although I will certainly keep looking for it, now that I know where to shop.**

**The young rooster is a noisy thing, and I think a hearty hen would satisfy him. We have but one calf left in the barn after the bad winter.**

**You asked for my recipe for Cornish Game Hen. Cook tells me that it wants all the spices in the pot, so that you may garnish liberally. Oh, and the beets are ready to be harvested on both the west and east sides of the garden as the weather has been against us for some time.**

**Do let me know how you are faring. I always welcome your letters.**

**Your friend,**  
Honoria  
27 April, 17** 


	45. Letter 45 - Sir John Watson to Mrs. Harriet Finch

Dear Harriet,  
I too am glad that we have mended the fence between us. I judged you without knowing of your sorrows, and for that I am truly sorry. Forgive me for burdening you with this, but I must tell someone, and Michael and my other friends do not understand.

Today, much against my better judgment, I accepted Mr. Holmes’ invitation to the Old Bailey. He saved a man’s life! Angelo Ciramella was accused of theft and would surely have hung but for Mr. Holmes’ testimony. Through those extraordinary powers of observation that I described, he proved that Mr. Ciramella was visiting a lady friend at the time of the robbery. Something about how the theft could only have taken place between the walks of the night watchmen, yet Mr. Ciramella was suffering from a limp taken when he fell from his mistress’s window that could only have happened at the time that her husband returned home, leaving no time for Mr.Ciramella to have crossed town to commit the robbery. I fear I am not doing the story justice. There was such a hue and cry after his testimony and the verdict of not guilty, we had to dash through the crowd and jump into a hansom. How we did laugh at our escape. You would have thought we were fleeing criminals. Judging by Mrs. Ciramella’s face, Mr. Ciramella may well feel that hanging was the lesser punishment, ho ho!

Mr. Holmes said that he would never have become interested in the man’s story if not for my influence, and that he is eager to find other unfortunates who might benefit and even be saved from the gallows by his skill.

I still do not know whether to believe him, yet when I am in his company I feel as though I am alive once again, with purpose and meaning. Surely I should continue my acquaintance with him in order to help him with this noble work?

I am so confused, Harriet. The man I know seems to bear no resemblance to the man that London knows. I cannot bear the thought of losing this friendship.

Your loving brother,  
John  
30 April, 17**


	46. Letter 46 - SH to MH

You have sent me after the wrong prey, Mycroft. I believe the quarry is the vixen, not the reynard. And now you owe me, not just for my expenses, but for my suffering. And do not even dare to suggest that I return to woo the lady. You have made the mistake and you must deal with it on your own. 

Lord D__ is on my doorstep night and day like some starving cat. I had suggested an invitation to his club in order to observe his associates, but now that is unnecessary and I cannot deny him any longer. I cannot even plead my menses as a woman might. I would gladly hide away for nine months claiming I had fallen pregnant to avoid his attentions were that a possibility. Indeed, his constant pursuit is making it nearly impossible for me to go out as it is.

This has all become a tiresome disaster and I look to you to sort it out.

SH


	47. Letter 47 - Michael Stamford to John Watson

Dear John,

What is wrong with you? Have you gone mad?

I am told that you have been out every day this week with that man! Holmes the younger!

John, in all seriousness, has he turned your wits? If all you required was a certain type of company—I won’t judge, I’ve heard things are hard out on the battlefield, although it would be wrong of me to invite you to stay with the family if so—then surely you could have found it in a more discreet manner.

Does Harriet know of your behavior? I had always thought that she would marry again after the death of her husband, and I wonder at you putting her in such a difficult situation.

I will pray for you, John. 

Sincerely,  
Michael

4 May, 17**


	48. Letter 48 - John Watson to Michael Stamford

Dear Michael,

I was deeply saddened by your last letter. I thought you better than to listen to gossip and wanton speculation. And I thought you knew me better.

Mr. Holmes is my friend, nothing more. And nothing less. Yes, I have seen him every day this week. We have walked through London at different times of the morning and the day. I have never seen a man so in love with a city. There is the true mistress of his heart. The rest...the rest I believe merely relieves his boredom. 

He is so brilliant, Michael. If you knew him, you would have no doubt of this, and would admire him as I do. His opinions on the nature of decay, on the lengths of healing time…they are so well-developed, I wish that he would give lectures or write monographs. He remembers everything utilizing the Greek Method of Loci, or mind palace—I had thought such techniques a myth. He can walk the city as it was before the Great Fire as easily as if he had lived then. And he will point out a door to me to say that it has been newly painted from the week before, such a little thing, and yet he believes that all of humanity is written in these tiny details. The gentleman who lives in that house is in pursuit of a wife and has spruced up his house accordingly, he said. I did not believe that he could ascertain such a thing, but the next day I read of the man’s engagement. Extraordinary!

As to the other…yes, he flirts outrageously with both sexes, and yes, I believe he enjoys the company of both. He is certainly pleasing enough to look at, beautifully attired, and charming when he chooses. But he has never made any type of lewd suggestion to me. I believe he respects me too much, and knows that I am not inclined that way. We enjoy a pure and true friendship. 

Again, Michael, I am deeply disturbed by your letter. 

Sincerely,  
John  
5th May, 17**


	49. Letter 49 - Diary of Sherlock Holmes, 6 May, 17**

This wretched business with Lord Dull, Mycroft’s obstinacy—I know full well that he wants to take me to the Hellfire as much as I want to go, and his reluctance is just to provoke me—and my necessary slowness with John has left me feeling completely out of sorts. I cannot go to any of my usual clubs or houses for Lord D spends each night wandering amongst them looking for me. Fortunately I was invited to a private party to which he could not possibly obtain entrance and was delighted to find that Victor had returned to London from India, looking as dashing as ever.

I quickly cornered him and begged him to take me home as I was in desperate need of a damn good shag. I should have liked some discipline but Victor has always been terrible at it, finding it comic and laughing when he should be strict. He does deliver a good spanking though as most boys who have come through Eton do. A quick carriage ride with some groping and petting and then to my rooms for proper sport. He’d said he’d brought back a quantity of good opium and we dispatched my servant to fetch it from his house along with his hookah. 

There was no need for preliminaries as Victor and I are old friends. We simply undressed and got straight to business while we waited for my man to return. I wanted it rough and he willingly obliged when I got onto all fours. Indeed, I thought my poor bed would shake apart. Victor is as virile as I could want and we had a further round—change positions—before the servant returned. Victor rudely took my quilted dressing gown and I was forced to wrap myself in the bed clothes when we returned to the sitting room to smoke. 

“I understand you have a new paramour and a pursuer,” he began.

“Hounding me, more like. Indeed in one vile letter he compared me to a bitch in heat for him. Had I not…gotten rid of it, I would show you although it would turn your stomach. I flirted with him at the bequest of the British government and now I cannot be free of him. I don’t suppose…” for the thought came to me that if Lord D__ could be turned to another quarry then he might forget me, or at least be consoled, for how can anyone forget me? 

But Victor is not brainless—else I should not consider him my only friend outside of John—and saw through me. “Absolutely not! There’s a young rani whose attentions forced me to leave my plantations in India for a time. I will not be forced from England for the same reason. I am sorry for your predicament, but I will not take it on myself to help you.”

I scowled at him in displeasure, but he soothed me with his hand and most creatively with his feet, so that I was blessedly relieved of thought for a few minutes. 

When we had recovered ourselves again, he asked, “But what of this other, Sir John Watson. He is as famous in India as he is here. I should have not thought him your type in any sense of the word, but they say he is taken with you and you are seen with him every day. Surely that relieves your boredom?”

I was forced to admit that John was not yet mine, which made Victor roar with laughter. “They say you have been pursuing him for a month. Is that true? I said that it could not be so. Surely that is a record for you. Does he have such an unusual member that you should make him so worth your time?”

“Shut up and don’t be tiresome or I shall have to send you home,” I replied. “He is proving most resistant, but I have worn him down and the conquest will be the sweeter for waiting.”

“But still,” Victor pushed, “why him? He seems most ordinary. He has no looks to speak of. He cannot be witty. You will not—or cannot—bring him out for the evening, it seems.”

“No, he will not come out with me. I believe he was overly fond of gambling in India and so resists the clubs and says he has no wish to mingle with the depraved sorts that I commonly consort with.”

“I believe I am quite offended by that description,” said Victor.

He then seemed to drop the issue as he puffed away, and I thought the soporific effects of the opium must be lulling him to sleep, when he suddenly exclaimed, “Are you in love with him?”

“Of course not!” I replied, for I most certainly am not. “He is both devoted to the female sex and sworn to celibacy. How can I resist that challenge. Love, pfft. It is but a word we give to a particular feeling in the body which should more accurately be called lust. Someday we shall determine the chemicals in the brain which cause it and eliminate it altogether.”

Victor smiled, “Ah, I had forgotten your particular philosophies on the subject. I was once in love you know, and it was something different from and beyond physical desire.”

For one horrifying moment, I thought that he was going to say that he had been in love with me, thus ending our friendship as I had always valued Victor’s levelheadedness and non-sentimentality which matched my own.

But he was still speaking, “Before I met you. Before I came up to college. We were quite young and the governor discouraged me because of it. He also said that she was beneath us.”

He laughed again but I recognized the bitterness in it. “Of course, as you and I now know, my father was but a criminal who by dint of murder managed to recreate himself as an honorable and wealthy man in the Caribbean’s, so by birth, I was not worthy of her. But your discretion means that society is unaware of that sorrow.”

“What became of her? Did she pine away for love of you?”

“No. She married a merchant and moved with him to one of the American colonies, I forget which.”

“You see!” I cried. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. It is an ever-fixed mark. Surely this love of yours should endure still if it were real. She should have died a maid and you untried if you could not be together. No, John has said the same. That he loved his wife but like yours, his love was never worn by time. You should have grown weary of her and she you. Searched out others as you searched out me for pleasure. In the end you would have grown to loathe one another, a far more permanent feeling than this ephemeral love.”

“I think you are wrong. Perhaps my example is not a good one, but my parents loved one another for all of their time together, though they seemed ill-matched. I believe her death may have weakened his heart before the tragedy took him altogether.”

On that somber reflection Victor lapsed at last into restful silence. Shortly after that, the opium gone, we retired to bed to sleep. I was woken in the morning by Victor doing quite creative things under my sheets, only surfacing to breathe, and it put the fantasies of love out of my head for the realities of pleasure.

As he dressed to leave in the morning, however, Victor returned to his topic. “This John, he seems to enjoy your company, and let us be honest, not many do. Most only endure the sting of your tongue when they know that they will be granted the delights of your body. Perhaps he is already as ready for the plucking as any over-heated virgin and is merely waiting for you to complete the seduction.”

John is a fascinating prey, and I would not startle him by too fast an attack. But he is enamored of me, of that I am sure. Still, I must choose the perfect moment to bring him down. Despite the physical relief from my evening with Victor, I find that I am still restless. It seems I cannot be content until I possess this damnable soldier.


	50. Letter 50 - J. Watson to S. Holmes

Why would you say those things to me? Why?


	51. Letter 51 - SH to John Watson

John!  
You ask why would I say those things. Do I not ask myself the same? Why did I speak to you? Why did I not know how to resist my impetuous heart which has seldom been so tried and so has never learned the art of patience and denial. Content to adore you in silence, I had at least the consolation that my love was pure, that my self-imposed restraint kept you safe from grief. 

Now you are unhappy and I am the sorry cause. But please know that your unhappiness is nothing compared to mine. You cannot know what torments I have suffered. For so long I believed I had no heart, that love was a myth, but then I met you. At first you were an entertaining companion, then you grew to a friend—something I have so seldom had—but then…can you understand how I could not believe my own feelings? How your presence became essential to me? How it caused me pain when we were apart and all my other entertainments failed to arouse anything in me but disdain for I finally understood what true love was? 

I tried so hard to resist, John, you must believe me, for I feared exactly this, that you would be hurt and that in your hurt you would withdraw from me, and I fear that I shall not be able to bear that. It is not that I expect you to reciprocate my love. I know that you are far too good to waste your feelings on one such as me. It is that very nobility which has made me fall in love with you. And yes, I am in love, of that I am certain. For the first time in my life. I wish nothing more than to be near you.

It was your very nobility that caused me to speak. I felt I could not deceive one so honest. But now…please, I beg you, erase all I said from your mind. Let us return to what we were before. I shall sublimate my feelings, lock them away, though I know they will not fade. I will never trouble you again with their presence. I cannot bear to lose your friendship. I fear it would be the death of me and I do not exaggerate. This heart you have awakened in me hurts too much to bear your loss. Do not abandon me to the frenzy in which you have plunged me: lend me your reason since you have ravished mine. 

Your friend,  
Sherlock


	52. Letter 52 - John Watson to Sherlock Holmes

I am humiliated by your words, your actions, your very being. I have _defended_ you! Risked my own reputation to extend the hand of friendship because I believed that you sincerely wished to be my friend. Instead I find that I was to be one of your many conquests and thought of as lightly as they.

I believed that you at least respected me and my good name. I ignored the wise counsel of friends and others. What a fool I have been. 

You dare to write to me of love? You who have so often scorned it in my presence? Let us make it clear, I cannot now believe anything you say, or have said in the past. And if by some strange madness your sentiments are true, know that they offend me; your speaking them is an outrage to me. The continuation of our supposed friendship is impossible. I believe that I have the right to request your silence both to me and to any other that you would take into your confidence. 

I ask you to return this letter to me after you have read it. You will see that I have returned yours. I would that no trace remain of an incident that ought never to have occurred.

John


	53. Letter 53 - Sherlock to John

Oh, John,  
I am in such despair at your letter, but I know that I deserve no better. Or rather that once I would not have. True, I have disparaged the idea of love in your presence, little knowing that I would have such cause to rue my words, that through you I would at last learn what love is. Now I am love’s fool and I ask you if I do not deserve your pity? Was I not, like some sick creature, devoid of an essential sense that others enjoyed as one blind. Healed at your hands, are you not surprised that I was overwhelmed by these new sensations? Would you cast a newborn chick from its nest?

For I long to be near you, John. I think of you on waking and as I lay down to sleep. Is this not love then? This desperate enslavement to another’s presence, another’s smile and voice? Note, I do not say that I am desperate for the touch of your hand on my skin, or the feel of your lips in a lover’s kiss, although I am, for I know that I can never hope to have such things in this life. No, I would adore you chastely and with all respect. How can you say that I do not respect you when it is my very reverance for you that has led to my love? I do not confound you with my previous lovers. You are as far above them as a saint amongst sinners. I have put them from my mind. There is only you. 

You reproach me for speaking. On our walks I was accustomed to baring my soul to you as I bared my chest for your examination in the countryside. It was impossible for me to conceal my feelings for you. As a reward for the most tender, the most respectful, the truest love, you seek to cast me afar from you. 

You tell me that you were warned against me. Surely as a fair and just man you would not withhold the names of my accusers? If they are so without sin themselves, no doubt they would wish to be known for their virtue? A criminal must be told of his crime and by whom he is accused. Do I, guilty only of the sin of falling in love with one so worthy of love, not deserve the same courtesy? 

Henceforth I shall devote myself to becoming worthy in your eyes. I know I can never attain your love, at least not the love that I feel for you. Without pretending to win you, I bestirred myself to deserve you. In begging your indulgence for the past, I was ambitious of your support for the future. I sought for it in your utterance. I spied for it in your eyes. Do not tell me that I was mistaken in seeing tenderness there. 

Your dearest friend,  
Sherlock


	54. Letter 54 - the diary of Sherlock Holmes

8 May, 17**

It is most curious, as I write these sentiments to John, I am so carried away by my own eloquence and pathos that I almost believe them myself.


	55. Letter 55 - SH to JW

Dear John,  
I have not received a response, but you did not refuse my last letter, nor did you return it. Do I dare to hope that I am not completely lost to your regard? Do I dare to hope that we might once again be friends as we were before I so foolishly asked for more? The loss of your company is unbearable. Please may I see you, my friend? May I continue to write to you if you will not see me? I shall keep a strict rein upon my tongue so that you will never be troubled again with those feelings that have so discomfited you. I beg you, grant me this little thing that cannot cause you hardship, but will give me such support upon my reformation.

I await your response eagerly,  
SH  
10th May, 17**


	56. Letter 56 - JW to SH

Dear Sherlock,

I am honest with myself. I am plain man, both in appearance and in temperament. I have seen some of your paramours, both male and female, and I know that I could never hold your attention for any length of time. If we had not been isolated in the country when we met, I would never have caught your attention, and so I know that this…passing fancy you believe you hold for me, cannot endure. 

All that I can offer you is friendship. Pray do not abuse it. Do not force me to regret that I have known you. I do not object to a letter every now and then telling me of your continued good works. I admire them and enjoy hearing of them, but I fear that I must insist that we not meet, nor that you write to me of these false sentiments.

John

11th May, 17**


	57. Letter 57 - John Watson to Harriet Finch

Dear Harriet,

It has been over a fortnight, and he writes to me every day or nearly. I had hoped that my absence, my resistance would make him grow tired of the game, for I do not write back, or not nearly as much as he does. And even if he did not write, I cannot avoid his name in the broadsheets, though now it seems he is determined to become as famous for solving the impossible, as he was for bedding the unbeddable. For the most part he restricts himself to boasting of his adventures and does not mention the topic that I requested him not to mention, but between the lines…he compliments me as though I am more interesting than I am, and in reading of his brilliance, I cannot help but be reminded of how remarkable he is.

Harriet…may I tell you…I miss him. I had grown so used to our daily conversations, both in the country and when we resumed our friendship here in town. When I read his letters I remember watching his face light up when he’d been particularly clever, when some deduction of his was proved correct. I admit that I enjoyed his…mockery of others, his acerbic wit. I remember the strength and timbre of his voice when passionate on a topic.

And Harriet…I find myself…no, I cannot …I find myself…remembering his appearance as well. Has he, as is said in jest, worked some sorcery on me? I am not a sodomite. No other man’s appearance has ever made any impression on me. Is it because his mouth is so full as a woman’s? Because his eyes of so extraordinary a shape and colour? And it is of no use to think such things. Even if I could go against God and nature, throw aside all that I have believed of myself all these years, betray even my vow to Mary’s memory, I cannot trust that he feels as he say when his own brother warns me against him. 

Although I do not wish to go abroad, especially now that we have at last repaired the rift between us, I feel that it may be for the best that I return to India, for I cannot trust myself to be with him, and I cannot be in England without him. I am in turmoil.

Your loving brother,  
John

27 May, 17**


	58. Letter 58 - Harriet Finch to John Watson

My dearest John,

I too am glad we have repaired what passed between us; it hurt to be judged so harshly. For even though I knew that I deserved some of your disapprobation, I was also certain that if your kind heart knew of my sorrows much would be forgiven.

As you now know, Mr. Finch was not a good man. I married in haste and had long to repent. His cruelty led me to behaviors which I deeply regret. His early death was a mercy to us all. However, I know that it will surprise you to hear me say that while I wish that my marriage had been otherwise, I cannot fully regret it. It brought me your namesake, my little son John, and in Mr. Finch’s sister Clara, the dearest friend of my heart. 

I do not know Mr. Holmes. He has been pointed out to me in public, and he is very striking, but I have never even been near enough to him to even hear his voice. I do know well of his reputation and found out more of him after you began your friendship. I agree that you have much reason to be wary, but consider, he has pursued you now for over a month and a half. That does not, to me, sound like a man intent merely on winning some kind of game either with himself or others. You also do not give yourself enough credit, John. You never have. I know that I may be biased, but you **are** interesting. You are clever, witty, brave, fearless in the defense of others, and strong in principle. 

You are also very stubborn, trust little and are so hesitant in matters of the heart that poor Mary nearly despaired of you ever proposing. 

What I am saying is that fleeing to India or to anywhere will be no solution. Do you love this man? I have never known you to cower in the face of public opinion. As to the law…clearly it is considered too absurd to be enforced else Mr. Holmes (and many other prominent men) should be in prison already. Do you fear the pain that might or might not come? 

I believe that you must meet with him again. You do not trust easily and yet you trust him. Trust that your heart will steer you correctly. Is happiness so thick upon the ground that you should discard this chance? 

Perhaps I am rambling, and perhaps when you speak to him, you will know that he has been deceiving you all along, but you will never know the truth if you do not face him. 

Know that I love you always,  
Harriet

28th May, 17**


	59. Letter 59 - Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes

Dear Sherlock, 

As you are surely aware, I have been visiting Lady D__ in Hertfordshire. Leg work is so tedious and it keeps me away from London for far too long. At any rate, she now believes that she is cleverly receiving high-level secrets from me rather than from her husband’s rambling. We should be able to feed a great deal of misinformation to her controllers. It could prove most satisfactory after all.

I was very surprised to learn that you and the little soldier are now fast friends. London society believes that they know what that means—I must say that I am surprised at his bravery in facing their gossip—but you and I (and I presume his own circle) know the truth: that you have not consummated. I cannot imagine that you have actually accepted him as a friend as we both know that you do not have friends, and so I must conclude that you have fallen in love with him and are unable to let him go.

My observation is that Sir John is ready to be plucked. You have nurtured his tender feelings for far too long. Take him, satisfy yourself with him, sate yourself. I will even make sure that Lord D__ is out of town so that there will be no distractions.

And then break with him completely. This bizarre fame you are acquiring is useless to me. No one enjoys a do-gooder. London wants you to be the emblem of debauchery. It makes your sharp observations that much more powerful. You on the side of the angels disturbs them—when will your intellect be turned to their sins? When you are the devil incarnate they feel superior and are more likely to reveal themselves. 

When you have done this, when Sir John is out of your life completely and London is relieved that you have reverted to form, the following will happen:

You will receive a message from me on a day of my choosing telling you to strip and wait. Two large men will arrive, blindfold you, plug your ears with oiled cotton wool, wrap you in a sheet and bring you to the Diogenes. I am well aware that you know where the Diogenes is. Cutting off your senses is to reassure others that you are not there to observe them at play, but for them to observe you in your humiliation. You will then be prepared by as many people as I see fit while I observe and tend to other things. Only when you are completely broken will I take your training in hand myself. 

BUT, this is my only offer. If you do not prove that Sir John means nothing to you, the offer is withdrawn and will not be repeated. Do I make myself clear?

Your affectionate brother,  
Mycroft

28th May, 17**


	60. Letter 60 - John to Sherlock

I have struggled within myself and I can resist you no longer. 

JW


	61. Letter 61 - Diary of Sherlock Holmes

31 May, 17**

I am undone. It should have been sweetest triumph, the goal towards which I had been working for these long weeks. Did I wish him to come to me in spite of his beliefs? Did I wish him to sacrifice his virtue, that maudlin oath, to me? How I am rewarded then.

His note filled me with elation. At last after all of my careful planning he was mine. I dressed carefully to best effect and went to his rooms. In all our weeks of talking I had never been able to entice him back to my rooms, or to convince him to invite me to his, but I had long before confirmed his address. The carriage ride seemed interminable as I imagined the pleasures that I could give him, and of the pleasure I would take from him, so that I was already half mad with lust by the time arrived. I had imagined what his body would be like for so long and at last I would know it.

An aged concierge let me in and then scuttled back to wherever such creatures live. John was waiting for me in his parlor dressed only in his shirt and his plain, brown wool breaches. He wore no stockings and his head was bare. 

“John,” I cried out as I entered. I threw my cape and hat aside as I strode across the room to meet him. “I received your note, do I dare hope?”

“You’ve come then,” was all that he said.

But when I went to take him in my arms he stood rigid. The look in his eyes as he looked up at me… He was terrified. He wanted me but everything in him cried out against it. If I took him, no matter how gentle I was, or how I whispered of love, he would be destroyed.

There was only despair in his eyes and I, I could not bear it. It tore my heart, that withered organ, in two. Leaving my cloak behind I fled.

31 May, 17**


	62. Letter 62 - Sherlock Holmes to Mycroft Holmes

Dear Mycroft, 

Though it pains me to confess it, John Watson resisted all of my efforts and has refused me most soundly. He is a most noble and remarkable man.

I find that I have lost my appetite for London’s pleasures, at least for the time being. I feel weary and unwell. Do we still have that hunting lodge in Scotland and is it maintained? I would be out of the city for a time.

Your brother,  
SH

1 June, 17**, 7 am


	63. Lettr 63 - John Watson to Sherlock Holmes

I have been up all night.  I can barely trust myself to write to you.  My hand is shaking and I don’t know if it’s from rage or grief or some combination of both.  What kind of monster are you?  You have proven yourself everything that has been said of you and more.  I cared for you, believed even that I ~~loved~~ you but it is no matter now.  You have destroyed me.  I cannot show myself in public for the shame you have brought upon me.  No doubt you and your friends have had a good laugh at the poor soldier taken in by false flattery.  Was it not enough to entice me to lose myself?  Did you have to destroy my very dignity, my self-respect?  Did you need to see in person what I had come to?  What could I have ever done to you, what could anyone have done to you to make you behave this way, when even your own brother warned me that you were not to be trusted in anything and that your favorite sport was to ruin the innocent.  You are the devil himself and I cannot even pray for the redemption of your soul.

John

1 June, 17**


	64. Letter 64 - Mycroft Holmes to Sherlock Holmes

SHERLOCK, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

M

2 June, 17**


	65. Letter 65 - Sherlock to Mycroft

What have **I** done?  YOU WARNED HIM AGAINST ME!

I have betrayed you, just as you betrayed me.  Lady D__ must be halfway to France by now, if she fled immediately upon receipt of my note.  Perhaps you might still catch her at Dover if she stopped to pack a case. 

Mark this, Mycroft, this little inconvenience, this wrinkle in your plans, is nothing compared to what I can and will do to you if you interfere in my life again.  There is not a plot you can foment, not a plan you can conceive that I will not hear of and thwart, if it is at all within my power.  I would stab you to the heart if I did not think that I would find only sawdust, to destroy your happiness as you have destroyed mine.


	66. Letter 66 - Mycroft to Sherlock

_Returned unopened_

Oh, Sherlock…

Sherlock, ton bonheur me tient vraiment à coeur. Et la vie d'un homme ne vaut rien si elle s'écoule sans objet. Tiens-tu vraiment à sombrer dans l'oubli, faute d'avoir commis une action mémorable? 

I believed that a relationship with Sir John would be of no benefit to you and would simply continue you along the destructive path you had chosen. It seems I was a poor judge of his character. I thought, like so many of your conquests, he would make you worse, confirming your belief in the weakness of man. Instead it seems he could be the making of you. 

I have lived my life believing that caring is not an advantage. All lives end. All hearts are broken…in time, by time. But perhaps I have been wrong in instilling that belief in you. If this man means your happiness… 

I will do what I can to repair what has been broken.

Your always loving brother,  
Mycroft

3rd June, 17** 

 

*roughly means “Your happiness is truly close to my heart. Do you really want to be forgotten because you did nothing worth remembering?” Thanks to archea2 for the translation.


	67. Letter 67 - MH to Madame A__ (cont. from Letter 1)

_(cont.)_

And so we come to the close of the tale, my dear Madame A__. You have heard, no doubt, what happened over the next few days, and many a theory has circulated as to the details, but I am going to tell you what very few people know.

The loss of Lady D__ was an annoyance, but in truth a minor matter, but it revealed the depth of Sherlock’s emotions. If Sir John was as honorable as my brother had said then I hoped that whatever his feelings towards my brother, he would still help me to save him. Sir John was not at his own lodgings and I learned that he had retreated to his sister’s house. At first Mrs. Finch refused me entry but I appealed to her heart, as one concerned sibling to another, and at last she brought me up to his room and announced me. 

Sir John was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, and when I entered he spared me only a glance before returning to an unfocused study of the carpet. Not at all the mien of a man who had proudly retained his honor in the face of my brother’s corruption. Working on a theory, I cut directly to the point. “My brother is dying,” I said.

At that his head snapped up and his body tensed. “Of what?” he asked.

And at that I had my answer. Sir John may have been a studier of medicine, but the fear in his voice was that of a man worried over a beloved, not a concerned physician.

“Love for you,” I answered.

His lip curled and he looked away from me out the window. In a dull voice he said, "Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them—” 

“—but not for love. Yes, I know the adage. But he has lost the will to live. He does not eat. He does not sleep. Only sits immobile in his shuttered sitting room. He refuses to have the candles lit or a fire in the grate. In short, he is a man who has lost the thing dearest to him and finds he cannot live without it.” I paused, “When you returned from India you had a limp. I believe that my brother was able to cure you of it by showing you that it had no cause—and yet, before that the pain was completely real to you. So I say again, my brother is dying for love of you.”

“It is not for me,” he replied with bitterness. “There must be some other unfortunate recipient of his attention who troubles him. They will acquiesce soon and he will recover to woo again.”

I said, “There is no one but you.”

He turned and stared at me again. “You are mistaken. He has gotten all that he wanted from me. I offered myself to him…and having broken me, he lost interest.”

I was genuinely surprised. “You say that you offered yourself to him? When was this?”

“Five days ago. I expected that the whole town would know of it by now.”

“It will surprise you then to learn that my brother told me that you refused him. That you were more honorable than any man he had ever met.”

Sir John eyed me warily. I suppose that I cannot blame him for his distrust. “Then he is ashamed of ever pursuing me. I tell you that he refused me.” He looked back to the fascinating carpeting. “He grew bored with me as soon as I admitted that I had fallen.”

I had until then been standing in the doorway as Sir John had not invited me in. I strode in and pulled a chair up to his. “Sir John, listen to me carefully. I have known my brother to grow tired of the chase before, but I tell you this. I have never known him to not take his pleasure before ending the game. If he felt as little for you as he has for all the others, then he would have bedded you and laughed at your pain in the morning. No. I believe that my brother, finding love for the first time in his life, did not, could not take advantage of you, for fear of hurting you.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked. “I do not believe you, and even if I did, it changes nothing. I am sorry that he is feeling unwell, but I do not think that it has anything to do with me and that he will soon recover.”

“Lord D__ has challenged him to a duel. They will meet one another tomorrow morning,” I said.

Sir John snorted, “I have heard that your brother is a skilled swordsman and an excellent shot. I am sure he will triumph. My sympathy is with Lord D__. What did Sherlock do to him?”

“Thwarted his attentions and revealed his wife to be a spy. She has fled to France. His Lordship is in disgrace and his family destroyed. For various political reasons I cannot intervene to stop the duel, and my brother has refused my help.”

“Good God!” Sir John exclaimed. “A spy? His attentions? I don’t understand you people. Your world…I am out of my depth.” He put his face in his hands, “I wish that I had never met any of you. I wish I had never returned from India, that I had died there.”

I allowed him to recover himself somewhat before I continued in a gentle tone, “Sir John, will you help me? It is my sincere belief that Sherlock intends to allow Lord D__ to kill him tomorrow.”

I could see his shoulders shaking with emotion as he answered, “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“Help me bring my brother back from despair. I am not asking you to tell him that you love him, Sir John. I ask only that you tell him that you forgive him. If he knows that, I believe he will bring this duel with Lord D__ to a draw as he has in such circumstances in the past. Otherwise, I don’t know…” I trailed off, surprised that for once I truly had no idea what would happen.

Sir John looked at me, the same dull expression in his eyes. “Harriet,” he called. “Please show Lord Holmes out.” _(to be cont.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Men have died..." -- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), As You Like It
> 
> I've used Shakespeare rather liberally through the story, but in fact he wasn't very popular or respected at the time. But for us it works as good shorthand.


	68. Letter 69 - Mycroft to Lady A__ (cont.)

Dawn is the time of duels, when the mist and the light favor neither opponent and shelter them from the eyes of the law. 

My brother had taken pains to hide the location from me, and I was only able to ascertain it at last through bribes in the wee hours of the morning.  I rode out, my coachman whipping the horses to a frenzy, desperate to speak to Sherlock before they began.

When I arrived Sherlock and Lord D__ stood some ways apart as Lord D___’s second walked about checking the ground and the light.  Sherlock had no second.  As I stepped from my carriage, Lord D__ came striding up to accost me.  “You here, too, then Lord Holmes?  Demons, the pair of you!”  Echoing Sir John he said, “I wish I’d never laid eyes on either one of you,” which I thought a bit absurd.  It wasn’t our fault that his wife was a French spy after all, but I thought better of saying it.  After all, I was there to make peace. 

“Lord D__.  I realize that what has passed is…unfortunate, but surely settling it in this archaic manner brings no good to anyone?”

“UNFORTUNATE!” he raged.  “My life is ruined.  You--  you--” he blustered, shouting across the clearing at Sherlock.  “You made promises.  What were those then?”

Sherlock did not turn or respond.  He had removed his jacket and waistcoat and stood in the chill morning air in only his shirt and trousers gazing into the distance.  Lord D__ spat on the ground, whether at me or at Sherlock I do not know, and walked back to his second. 

I started towards Sherlock.  When I was perhaps ten feet away he spoke, “What are you doing here?”

“As ever,” I replied, “I’m concerned about you.”

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your concern.”  He paused, “Go away.  I don’t want you here.  You have no place in my life anymore.” 

“You may not want me to be in your life, but I am.  I am your brother.  Call this off, Sherlock.  Or wound him lightly and call it done.  You know he’s no match for you with a sword.

“We are fighting with pistols.”

That scared me.  It is harder in a pistol duel to satisfy honor without one of the parties sustaining a major injury. 

“Sherlock, stop this.  I am— I am begging you.”

But his eyes were still focused on the horizon where the first rays of sun were emerging, warming the dew and creating a haze.  “Is not the sun beautiful, Mycroft?  See how its light plays upon the grass?  I have never been so aware of it before.  And yet, the sun will dry the dew in such a short time.  The Morning Glories will close, the violets wilt in the heat.”

His words chilled me far more than the cold air.  “Sherlock, please, the sun makes the flowers grow and it will rise again tomorrow, the flowers will bloom anew.  I know you will not believe me, but I do know what you are feeling.  ‘We are all formed of frailty and error; let us pardon reciprocally each other's folly - that is the first law of nature.’”1

“Go away, Mycroft.  Go away or I will shoot you myself.”  The dullness of his tone scared me more than if he’d been ranting. 

I had no more words.  I stood away.  I hoped that when the moment came he would choose life.  With life there is always hope. 

Sherlock won the coin toss.  I saw a wry smile pass over his features and he shrugged.  But he took position to fire first.  He fired and Lord D__, looking triumphant, still stood.  Sherlock shrugged again.  I saw his mouth move.  A prayer?  An invocation?  I believe, though I never confirmed it, that he spoke in Latin.  _“Mortem noli contemnere, sed laeto animo eam excipe ut quae unum sit eorum, quae natura vult.” 2_

Lord D__ prepared to take his shot.  Was I truly going to watch my brother die?  I feared I might faint or vomit.  I shut my eyes.  The gunshot sounded unusually loud.  Only later did I understand it was because of two guns fired almost simultaneously.  I opened my eyes in time to see both Sherlock and Lord D__ fall. 

I think I ran towards my brother, but I am not fleet of foot, and by the time I reached him, another figure was bending over him. 

“Sherlock!” Sir John was crying, for it was he who cradled my brother in his arms.  His pistol lay in the grass beside him.  “Sherlock, speak to me!”

My brother’s shoulder was bloody, but mercifully the wound didn’t seem to be gushing.  His eyes opened, and I have never seen a man’s eyes light up as his did then.  I hadn’t seen such joy on his face since he was a child, running in from the garden with some discovery.  “John!” he cried. They wrapped their arms around one another, and I realized that my brother was crying too.  I politely turned away.  There were other matters I needed to attend to. 

Lord D__ lay on the ground, his second crouched over him.  If Sir John had killed him, I could not allow that information to get out. 

“Lord Holmes,” the gentleman said, as I approached. 

“Is he dead?”

“No, mercifully.  The shot grazed his temple and knocked him out.  I believe it caused his shot to go wide, for he was determined to kill your brother.  Damned if I know how your brother was able to fire.”

We looked at one another long enough for an understanding to pass between us.  We both knew that Sherlock could not have fired the shot.  But it was best for all concerned that the truth not be told. 

***  
There is little more to tell, my dearest Madame A__.  Sir John and I bundled Sherlock into my carriage.  Lord D__, still unconscious, was bundled into his.  My brother’s injury was serious but not fatal.  Yes, Madame A__, not fatal.  I gave out that he’d been gravely injured in an accident, and then less than a week later, announced his death.  Lord D__ certainly had no interest in sharing his part in the events.  Everyone knew that his wife had left him even if they didn’t know the details.  And he had not been discreet in pursuit of my brother.  The public added two and two together, and if they arrived at five, I did nothing to correct them.  He slunk back to his estate, and I believe remains there still.  I have made some small lookout for his children’s futures.  There’s no reason that they need to suffer.

As to my brother’s “alleged” death, London went into mourning.  Numerous women (and not a few men) claimed that they had been Sherlock’s only true love, a few even producing children (rest assured, if there had ever been a question of that, I would have discovered it).  Many went so far as to wear black crepe.  But society is fickle.  New scandals arose, new favorites were chosen.  Meanwhile, my brother recovered, quietly and in secret, at our family estate.  Sir John would not be moved from his side, sleeping in the adjourning dressing room to be within earshot at all times.  If, at some point, when my brother was sufficiently healed—to which I trusted Sir John’s medical opinion—the good gentleman moved into my brother’s bed, well, I did not inquire.

In truth, I stayed away from them for the most part.  My brother still felt he had cause to be angry with me, and additionally, it would have appeared peculiar for me to stay in the countryside if my brother was already dead.  I appeared in town in mourning, staged a funeral, and accepted people’s condolences.  Perhaps there were a few questions about Sir John’s absence.  Perhaps people assumed that he too was in mourning.  At any rate, little reached my ears.

I made preparations for my brother’s future.  He could not stay in England.  Going to our people in France was obviously out of the question.  There was also Sir John to consider.  Would they want to stay together?  Would Sir John uproot his life for Sherlock?

Through a variety of bribes and threats, I gained them passage on a ship to the colonies; I suppose I must call them the United States of America now.  And so, some two months after the duel, I found myself in the moonlight, standing on the Cornwall coast.  A sailor was ready to row them out to the waiting ship.  The Cornish wind stole our words and perhaps there was little left to say.    

“Sir John,” I said, “I know that I have been a cause of great pain to you.  But how could I have known that of all the people in the world, you were the only one that could make my brother whole.  Take care of him.”

He nodded curtly, his eyes going to Sherlock’s slim figure.  “Harriet knows why I must leave.  Will you…will you look after her?”

“Of course, Sir John, it would be my honor.”

Their simple luggage loaded, Sir John went to join the boatman.  Sherlock walked back up the sand to me. 

“Mycroft, My, I…” his voice trailed off. 

“Sherlock,” I started, but I too was at a loss for words.

Abruptly he embraced me, then turned and walked to the boat.  I thought I had felt tears on his cheek, but perhaps it was only sea spray. 

That was six months ago.  I know that the ship arrived safely in Boston and that they disappeared into the population of that city.  The war will soon be over, and communications will become easier between ourselves and the new nation.  Perhaps someday I will receive a letter  with familiar handwriting but an unfamiliar name.  Perhaps at some point they will even be able to return to England and society will marvel at their adventures.  I cannot say.

So now you know the truth.  It is a relief to have, at last, shared it with someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up making a whole hiatus between the previous chapter and this one. It was not my intention. Hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> 1) Voltaire  
> 2) Marcus Aurelius - Do not despise death, but receive her with a glad heart as [you do] those things, of which it be one, which nature wills.

**Author's Note:**

> STORY:  
> “Un Homme Dangereux” (sorry it’s so close to the title of the last one), a pastiche with Choderlos de Laclos’ epistolary novel, _Les Liaisons Dangereuses_. 
> 
> GOAL:  
> This is the conceit: to write these as fast and dirty as actual letters, while still keeping as much voice as possible and historical accuracy and impact. The goal is one a day. Some will be very short. There are 175 letters in the original novel. Since I’ve combined some characters and cut others, plus am unwilling to make the dance quite as long as de Laclos did, let’s say…maybe 50? If I can’t post a letter I will make a post saying that there isn’t an installment that day to keep myself honest. I will do a digest on the boards once a week, probably Sunday, but if you want to follow in real time, follow me, or follow at AO3, fanfiction or Tumblr. 
> 
> IMPORTANT:  
> The novel was published in 1782 so I am keeping that as the timeframe for this. My major break with the novel is that there is an encompassing letter that serves as a framework. The entire story is within a letter that Mycroft is writing to a friend after the events of the story, utilizing the other letters as support. Depending on what is needed, I may have to resort to diary entries in addition to letters. There will probably be more dialog than one usually finds in letters, but de Laclos does it as well. 
> 
> HISTORICAL NOTES:  
> I was rather bad at keeping up with historical notes on TMNOL, and if I can write this as fast as I want to, I will probably forget to do it on this as well. Additionally, I’m not as familiar with the time, so there may be a number of errors. Feel free to let me know, or share what you know in the comments. I will revise what I have time for. Ask questions about anything I don’t explain, and I will point you to my research.
> 
> Again, like TMNOL, 1782 is an interesting time (perhaps there are no uninteresting times). The American War of Independence (or as we call it, “In Yo Face, King George”) was winding down. England was still solidifying its hold on India (thus, again, John will have fought in India, not Afghanistan), and England and France hated one another (big shock). The French Revolution would begin in 1789 (although they can’t know that at the time of the story). 
> 
> Terms from the first chapter:  
> Banyan - a sort of smock or robe adopted from the middle and far east (the Orient) worn over clothes in the home like a dressing gown  
> Huguenot – Protestants of French descent who fled religious persecution in France  
> Hellfire Club – There were real gentlemen’s clubs bearing this name where immoral acts were supposed to have taken place, but the idea of the Hellfire Club is a popular trope in literature, appearing in (among others): Blackadder the Third, the Grenada adaptation of “The Priory School,” The Sandman comic (extending, I believe into Hellblazer), and the Doctor Who Eighth Doctor novels. And clearly influencing Mark Gatiss’ Vesuvius Club.
> 
> AUTHOR’S NOTES REGARDING THE TERM PASTICHE:  
> I’ve mentioned before that I dislike the popular names of genres in fanfiction. Crossover is the generally used term, but crossover, to me, implies that some of the original characters from each world will appear in the story e.g. the Doctor, Sam and Dean wrap the Tardis around the Impala and go off fighting demons and demon-like things. Archea2 uses the term pastiche for her work (and allowed me to play) and I think it fits this better, using elements, specifically in our cases, the writing of both of the originals, without necessarily having characters from both. My goal will be to mimic de Laclos’ writing style. I was happy to use some of the original text from my translation (Ernest Dowson) in the first letter and hope to use more as I go on. I tend to think of pastiche as short and funny, but obviously it can be used for long and angsty.
> 
> I use the term angst here, not in its general fandom sense meaning all types of drama, but in the true sense meaning inner turmoil. You have been warned.


End file.
